


These Hollowing Souls

by Lomelindi (PirateColey)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Song fic?, Thilbo, Unanswered Prayers, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PirateColey/pseuds/Lomelindi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo could scarcely believe it when he turned the corner of a deep hall in Mirkwood and heard Thorin's voice in the darkness. At first he had been so exceptionally glad to have found the dwarf that he all but ripped the magic ring from his finger and exposed himself to the elven guards. But something about Thorin's voice stayed his hand. The words coming from behind the prison door were so wrought with emotion that Bilbo wondered if Thorin himself even knew what he was speaking.</p>
<p>No, not speaking. Praying. Thorin Oakenshield was praying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hollowing Souls

**Author's Note:**

> When Peter Jackson released the new song from 'Desolation of Smaug' I couldn't get over the fact that the entire thing sounded like a prayer from Thorin to Mahal. It just broke my heart in its perfection. I wanted to write something related to the song, but doing it from Thorin's PoV seemed too obvious. Once I got inside BIlbo's head, the story became a little more Bagginshield then the original song intended. You can choose to read it as gen if you don't like the Thorin/Bilbo slant. Most of the "dialogue" is taken from the lyrics to 'I See Fire'.

 

 

Bilbo could scarcely believe it when he turned the corner of a deep hall in Mirkwood and heard Thorin's voice in the darkness. They had been separated after the spiders- the other dwarrows were all prisoners in the upper halls- but Thorin had been taken elsewhere, and Bilbo searched long and hard for his friend. At first he had been so exceptionally glad to have found the dwarf that he all but ripped the magic ring from his finger and exposed himself to the elven guards. But something about Thorin's voice stayed his hand. The words coming from behind the prison door were a bastardized mix of Khuzdul and Westron, and so wrought with emotion that Bilbo wondered if Thorin himself even knew what he was speaking.

 

No, not speaking. Praying. Thorin Oakenshield was praying.

 

“Oh, Misty Eye of the Mountain,” Thorin's voice whispered hoarsely, calling upon Mahal the Maker, creator of the dwarrows. As Bilbo neared the cell door he could see the dwarf on his knees, head bent low, addressing his prayers to the earthen floor, as if the rocks themselves would carry his words to the god. Maybe they would. Bilbo had seen enough on his journey to doubt nothing, especially when it came to things he didn't quite understand- like gods or magic.

 

It wasn't the same sort of way that hobbits prayed- with their faces turned up towards the sunlight, singing their thanks to Yavanna, but it was a prayer none-the-less. The repetitious words and low tones were a desperate litany and took on the measure of a hymn- bleak and mournful and despondent.

 

“Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls.” In his mind's eye Bilbo could see the other members of the company, each staunch in their devotion to the cause. Such was their belief in Thorin that they would follow him to the ends of the world. They were all afraid that they would die on the quest, or fail, though most would never show it. Dwarrows were fierce and steadfast and seldom showed fright. But Bilbo watched. And Bilbo saw. And while the older members of the company might have had practice staving off emotions, the fear in the eyes of the younger dwarrows was mirrored in Bilbo's own.

 

“Should the sky be filled with fire and smoke, keep watching over Durin's sons.” Bilbo dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and scrubbed away the tears that threatened to fall at the mention of the youngest boys. Fíli and Kíli, Thorin's heirs and sister-sons. Though Thorin put up a front and treated them the same as the other the dwarrows, Bilbo knew differently. Oftentimes, while they sat watch together, Thorin would speak to him of his nephews' childhoods and of his own trepidation of bringing them on the quest. Thorin felt responsible for every member of his company, but the boys most of all. If anything were to happen to them, Thorin would never forgive himself. Still, there was no choice of leaving them behind. Fíli would never be able to command the loyalty of his people if he did not help to retake their homeland and where he would go, Kíli would always follow.

 

In the cell Thorin's hands clenched, fingers forming tight fists that struck the ground like a hammer to an anvil. “If this is to end in fire then we shall all burn together! Oh father, please!” Thorin's voice broke and Bilbo's resolve followed, the tears he had been fighting back falling unchecked down his cheeks. It was one thing to know that the other dwarrows would give up their lives for Thorin and the mountain, but another entirely to see the would-be-king suffer with his guilt. “Prepare as we will, father! Prepare us for when desolation comes!” Bilbo couldn't begin to fathom what it must be like to lead your people- your friends- into the waiting maws of death. To be accountable for all those lives and futures. Retaking Erebor would be best for Thorin's people, but even he knew the potential cost.

 

“Should my people fall, then surely I'll do the same,” Thorin promised, lifting his eyes from the earthen floor for the first time. He stared resolutely into the darkness, his eyes falling perilously close to where Bilbo was hiding, unseen. “We got too close to the flame, father. We were lost in our desire.” Thorin's words were heavy with the weight of gold-sickness, the fear that his grandfather's malady would overtake him as well. Bilbo had learned of the illness in Rivendell and he and Thorin had shared many of the following nights speaking long into the dusk. Bilbo knew that Thorin's greatest fear was not for himself, but that his beloved nephews would someday inherit the kingdom and grow to old age with greed and mistrust. That Fíli and Kíli might have inherited their family's curse frightened Thorin more than any army or dragon. For if one brother fell prey to the gold-sickness, the other would not be far behind. Thorin would never voice his concerns to the other dwarrows- he was their leader, their king, and he had to remain strong and fearless for them. But Bilbo was not his subject, and to Bilbo he could speak his mind.

 

And speak he did. Once the walls of suspicion and doubt had been breached, a friendship grew out of the rubble and Bilbo found himself a trusted confidant to the future king. They spoke of their pasts, of their families, of their homes. Thorin told Bilbo about life in Erebor before the dragon took the mountain, and Bilbo replied with tales about growing up in the Shire. With Bilbo, Thorin was free to speak of his doubts and fears and Bilbo took it upon himself to make the dwarf smile. The closer they got to Erebor, the closer they found themselves- friendship blossoming into something more. Something neither of them would openly address, but both of them could feel. The one thing they never spoke of was their future, for even as they found themselves growing closer together fate still pushed them apart. Should they succeed, Thorin would be crowned King Under the Mountain and there would be no place for Bilbo at his side. And should they fail, death would surely separate them. No, for all Bilbo found himself loving Thorin, he knew it would all be for naught. There was no hope for them. Not now, not ever. It was all in vain.

 

Bilbo was broken from his thoughts by the sound of his name, voiced softly in the aching dialect of Thorin's prayers. “Now I see fire inside the mountain. I see fire hollowing souls.” Even in the darkness Bilbo could see Thorin's face through the bars of the cell door, a face that was wet with tears. Beseeching, Thorin bowed his head towards the floor again and pressed his damp cheek against the earth. “The sky's falling down and there is nothing to be done for it. I cannot have him, but I am lost without him.” Bilbo bit at the palm of his hand to stifle the sob that rose in his throat. He too could see the fire- not the burn of a dragon's breath, or the heat of desire- but the flames that scorched the land, leaving nothing but an empty husk behind. The thought of a life without Thorin beside him left a void in the very core of his being- as if something had gone in and clawed away the tender flesh around his soul, leaving him lonesome and bare.

 

“The night is burning and with that shadow upon the ground I hear my people screaming!” Thorin's fingers clawed at the earthen floor, his voice growing in measure and pained ferocity. “There is nothing I can do to guarantee their safety or our success. I cannot help them. I cannot save him. We are here for our right, but have I doomed us all?” From somewhere deep in the depths of the Elf King's dungeon Bilbo could swear he heard other voices rising out of the darkness to join in Thorin's prayer. The words crept out of the silence, spilling into the empty hallways and pleading with the very roots of mountain itself. Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Bilbo knelt to the ground and bowed his face towards the earth, whispering the last refrain of his own hymn along with his brothers-in-arms: “I hope that you'll remember me.”

 

As the prayer faded softly into the distance, Bilbo sat outside Thorin's cell and wept.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! Comments, kudos, and bookmarks really help to feed the muse!


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